


Backspin

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: KNBxNBA, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 02:49:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14275287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Taiga knows how much Tatsuya wants to let his fingers scrape the backboard on the way down the way they’d practiced as kids, finally tall enough for that, finally jumping high enough to touch the net, the board, the rim, for there to be time to register as they’re airborne, something between them and the ground until the soles of their feet land on the other side of the free-fall.





	Backspin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justlikeswitchblades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/gifts).



> thanks val for the prompt <3<3<3
> 
> happy 4/10 kagahimu!
> 
> au where there's no one-and-done and you can go straight from hs to the nba. please keep in mind that kagahimu are 18 and 19 in this.

The last time Taiga was in California was November. They’d gone through both LA teams then, Clippers on Tuesday and Lakers on Wednesday, and Tatsuya hadn’t gone to either game because he’d had a midterm Friday. He’d called Taiga after the Lakers game, congratulated him and Taiga had told him off for not studying, and Tatsuya said he’d done it during commercial breaks and when Taiga wasn’t playing. That hadn’t been very often, though, more minutes than Taiga had been told to expect to play that early in the season, even though by that point he’d probably earned them (he’d aimed to, anyway). Either of them could recite his stat line but that hadn’t been the point then and it isn’t now, and it wasn’t when they’d met up for cheap late-night Chinese at one of the only places they could afford to go regularly in middle school.

It hasn’t been priced out of the neighborhood yet and the food seems even cheaper, maybe because they’ve got the cash at their disposal. They’d still skipped the free chopsticks that splinter their tongues and the forks that bend rather than pierce the dumplings and eaten with their hands, mopping up the grease rolling in the bottom of the aluminum like a particularly savory sauce (though Tatsuya had made a snide remark about their nutrition plans and, well). Their elbows had bumped as they’d eaten, out front of the restaurant in the cool fresh air, and it had made Taiga’s insides feel some sort of way he couldn’t describe. And he didn’t want to describe it and break the moment.

He’d walked Tatsuya back to his dorm afterward and they’d both been tired and Tatsuya had hugged him when they were just out of range of the glaring lights at the front of the squat low-rise building. And they hadn’t talked about basketball the whole time, and for most of it, it hadn’t filled the space between them like an awkward intruder clearing its throat.

It had at the start, Tatsuya steering the conversation away again and again, until Taiga had let him have it. He wasn’t going to push the issue when there’d been nothing to push but mutual frustration, apologies at the tip of his tongue for things he shouldn’t be sorry for and that Tatsuya wouldn’t want to hear. Taiga’s never felt bad about his talent, even when Tatsuya did; he’s never felt bad about getting his share of playing time or winning the Winter Cup or getting that scholarship or winning the high school championship or going in the first round right after the league had changed the rules to let 18-year-olds get drafted again. And it’s not something he’s taking away from Tatsuya; even Tatsuya can’t feel that way when he’s in a different league, but it makes it all the more unfair that Tatsuya’s not even getting to play.

And now Taiga’s all wound up about it again, even though Tatsuya is playing; he’s been playing since February when UCLA’s starting guard, some fragile wunderkind no NBA team had wanted to take a gamble on with his history of torn muscles and broken bones, had up and sprained his wrist, and even if that guy were to come back at peak health tomorrow it would be awfully hard for even the UCLA staff to give the job back to him.

Taiga hadn't been watching Tatsuya not play; he’d spent all last season tuning in in the middle of homework or after practice, right before a game or going in person when he could, just to see Tatsuya on the bench with his warmup shirt still on, no sweat broken on his face. They could have used him; Taiga had said as much and Tatsuya had said his time would come. And then the injuries had come, and Tatsuya had been kicking ass in the garbage time at the end of a blowout, and he was still stuck to the bench during the rest of the game and he’d looked so damn tense and even worse in person but he’d quietly said he’d have to get so good they couldn’t ignore him. And that had shut down the conversation, unless Taiga had wanted to go somewhere else with it, which he hadn’t (at least hadn’t more than he’d wanted to avoid an argument).

But now UCLA’s in the Sweet Sixteen, playing Xavier at the Staples Center, and Taiga’s making the drive on the off-day between the Warriors and the Kings, from Sac down to LA on a car he’d managed to get one of the older guys to rent him. He’d said he was kind of homesick, and that’s true; what he really misses is Tatsuya, watching Tatsuya play and playing with him and just being with him, even the feeling worming its way through his insides like the rim on his hands after a dunk when he hangs on, but different. Too weird to think about in traffic, especially when Tatsuya’s been playing and tearing it up, too good to ignore just like he’d said he’d be (even though, in Taiga’s opinion, he’d already been there).

Taiga had bought his ticket off StubHub for more money than he’s probably spent on pro sports tickets in his life, combined—he can afford it, though; he wouldn’t have blinked at twice that cost if it meant this. Twice that, and gas, and food, and everything else, for this? That’s basically nothing. (Okay, adding in the price of a last-minute hotel booking for tonight—he’d still pay it, for Tatsuya.)

Even with the usual shitty traffic, he checks into the hotel and gets there with enough time to spare, program in one hand and overpriced concessions in the other. The seat’s okay, better when he realizes no one is asking for his autograph. They probably don’t know who he is, mobs of fans in their college gear. Taiga’s never played college ball, was considered a long-shot recruit at best. Maybe he should have, but that’s a regret that’s not worth parsing and thinking about now that he’s burned his so-called amateur athlete status with an NBA contract and a shoe deal and some side endorsements. Maybe being a pro athlete has made him as self-centered as Tatsuya jokes he is; he’s not supposed to be thinking about himself right now. He forgets as soon as the team comes out for warmups, anyway. The arena’s already almost full, and both teams are already feeding off it. Tatsuya’s in formation for the shootaround but his jumps look higher and the ball seems to jump spring-loaded off his fingertips. He looks good, and that’s a dumb fucking understatement, but it’s all Taiga’s mind can come up with. The line of his arms extending into the air, the way those warmup pants make his legs look longer, that long jump shot and Tatsuya knows he’s showing off, but it only makes it look better, only makes Taiga smile harder.

When they call Tatsuya’s name as a starter, the crowd seems to get even louder, and maybe that’s because Taiga’s paying more attention but whatever the cause, he hopes it sounds louder to Tatsuya, too. All of this he’s more than earned (even though basketball is only so much what you put in, equal amounts what’s been put in for you in terms of luck and talent and environment and how good you are at not standing in your own way). If riding the bench and waiting what had felt like eons to Taiga as an observer is worth anything, it’s getting this when he finally breaks free of that. When Tatsuya gets to the pros—Taiga’s getting ahead of himself.

The ref pushes the ball into the air, and the UCLA center wins the tipoff. He tosses the ball forward to Tatsuya, and he doesn’t slow down, dribbling and driving past a defender and sending a sharp pass back to their two. He’s got a clear shot and makes it; it swishes through the net for three points.

They don’t let up; Tatsuya’s leading UCLA down the other way, getting up in a Xavier forward’s face. The guy must have seven or eight inches on Tatsuya at least, but his grip on the ball is short of solid; he fakes one way that Tatsuya only fakes following, then another, then a dribble, and he tries to push past. That’s where Taiga’s coaches always tell him to take the foul; he’s sure Tatsuya’s do, too, but Tatsuya doesn’t. He stutters back; the Xavier forward only pushes through air, and the ball bounces up from the ground and reaches Tatsuya’s palm first. Tatsuya spins and heads back the other way; the Xavier forward grabs at him but he’s already gone (when did Tatsuya get that fast?) and past the half-court line. Tatsuya’s got open teammates, but he takes the layup himself, graceful and easy, as close to a sure thing as they come. Taiga knows how much Tatsuya wants to let his fingers scrape the backboard on the way down the way they’d practiced as kids, finally tall enough for that, finally jumping high enough to touch the net, the board, the rim, for there to be time to register as they’re airborne, something between them and the ground until the soles of their feet land on the other side of the free-fall.

Maybe Taiga’s not getting ahead of himself.

Tatsuya’s smiling; he turns and almost seems to see Taiga for a second, and even from far away the shape of his mouth, his nose, his eye, seem to burn themselves in Taiga’s retinas. Taiga almost lurches forward; Tatsuya’s already diving into another play; Xavier scores a long three but it barely seems to matter with the way Tatsuya’s dribbling the other way already, dishing the ball out, taking it back when it comes to him. The ball is like some kind of super-boomerang, always coming back to Tatsuya’s hand; the smile is still touching the corners of his mouth and either he can’t help himself or he doesn’t care. He’s that fucking happy, and Taiga feels like he’s about to overflow, Tatsuya’s happiness pouring onto him like something melting into his seams, into every crack. And, fuck.

He wants this; he wants Tatsuya. He wants to play against him; his legs twitch and he wants to rush the court, take up a uniform and play as hard as he can, harder than he’d gone up against anyone this season or ever, harder than he knows how; Tatsuya deserves no less than better than his best. He wants to be the one receiving Tatsuya’s passes, too; the UCLA big man takes an alley-oop and slams it in and they’re already up by fifteen and Taiga wants it to be his hands stinging from the hard slap of the rim, him, the target of Tatsuya’s smile. It’s like the first time all over again, before Taiga had even known what a dribble was—watching Tatsuya had made him want to know, had made him want to do it all. He wants that, that kind of feeling off the end of his hands, the first time he’d held a basketball and felt the weight of the air packed tightly inside of it, the feeling of it smacking against his soft child’s palms, so large and unwieldy; he wants the feeling of the first time he’d played against Tatsuya and held his own, the first time he’d won against him, Tatsuya pulling out all of the stoppers (not what had come after, but the feeling at the time). It's squeezing Taiga’s chest and stomach, inching him forward in his seat, sucking the breath from his lungs. He wants all of this; he can feel Tatsuya’s love of the game without even looking for it, too big to fit outside his frame of vision. He wants that; he wants to love basketball like that, and he wants Tatsuya to love him like that; he wants to lose himself in a game against Tatsuya and he wants to jump Tatsuya’s bones and he wants all of this five years ago, and fuck. Fuck.

(It’s not like he hadn’t been at least somewhat conscious of all of this; it’s just easier to let it be, but right now he can't let any of it be because Tatsuya has the ball again, faking past defenders, snapping Taiga’s heart forward against the inside of his ribcage and back, pumping his blood loud in his ears.)

Tatsuya swerves again, pops off a no-look pass to number thirteen. A familiar play, consistent in the game highlights Taiga’s been watching, something they’ve used since the middle of January but it’s still effective. He knows how it goes, how Thirteen’s going to drive in and then pass it back out to whoever’s open, and Xavier knows, too. They’re playing man-to-man, close, pressuring; there’s nowhere for Thirteen to go. He passes out to Tatsuya anyway, over his defender, and over Tatsuya’s defender. Tatsuya catches it in the air, and he throws it back, higher; thirteen’s defender can’t get back quick enough and Thirteen stuffs in the dunk. Taiga can’t make a sound. Was this the fallback from the beginning? Was the play they kept running the fallback, an outside shot instead of the dunk that ignites the whole team out on the court? Tatsuya’s teammates are slapping his back; he’s smiling still as they jog down the court. Did that dunk just make the crowd louder? Is Taiga only noticing it now? Does it matter?

Taiga’s not sure how he makes it to halftime (maybe it’s because college games are really fucking short); he glances back up at the scoreboard for the first time since before the game started. UCLA’s up twenty, 64-44. Shit. How many of those points are Tatsuya’s? (How many are  from his assists, rebounds, steals, passes? How many are him distracting the defenders enough to keep his teammates open?)

The crowds in the stands are thinning out; the game’s too exciting to get up for food or a bathroom break during play. At least, it’s been for Taiga; the score’s lopsided but it’s never felt like the pressure’s off. It’s never felt like they’re not a handful of seconds away from Tatsuya doing something amazing again. The countdown clock is going slowly; the halftime entertainment is a gimmick as usual. Taiga thumbs through his phone. Nothing from Tatsuya (not that Tatsuya would even check during a game). He replies to a few other messages, but opens up the thread between him and Tatsuya again. Nothing since yesterday, talking about how good it is to come back to California (Tatsuya teasing him again about only missing the food, and reading over something so recent makes Taiga smile at the screen). He types out a word, then holds down the delete button on the touchscreen. There’s so much he wants to say, and he's not sure it’s appropriate or conveyable through text. It can wait until the game is over, he decides.

_hey im here_

Taiga stuffs his phone back into his pocket. Twelve minutes left in halftime; he can handle it.

When the second half begins. most of the UCLA starters are sitting courtside. Tatsuya isn’t, though. He stares across at his opposition; the Xavier guard wearing five scowls back. It’s Xavier’s win on the tipoff this time; the ball goes back to number five but Tatsuya’s already on him. He’s not giving him much room, and for a moment Taiga thinks the refs might call foul from a mistaken contact or just to head off any physicality. They don’t; Five fakes left and then right but it’s clear to Taiga  that it’s out of desperation; there aren’t any clear passing lanes. It’s clear enough to Tatsuya, too; He leans in closer; the ball wobbles off Five’s hand as he attempts to pivot and dribble, and the ball is Tatsuya’s. He races back down the court, ahead of all nine other players, and stops just before the three-point line. He takes his time and rises into a jumper, the ball rising through the air in a slow and clear-cut arc like a barge cutting through open water. It lands in the net but that’s a foregone conclusion, not as important as Tatsuya casually half-flipping his hair or his teammates slapping him on the back. The ball doesn’t even get past the half-court line before UCLA gets it back on a fumble; the ball lands in Tatsuya’s hands again and this time they’re already double-teaming him.  He moves to the left, about to drive straight through one of his defenders (offensive foul, it almost has to be; why?) and then he breaks the other direction. It’s been a while since Tatsuya’s fooled him with a fake that good; Taiga’s mouth lets out a half-laugh. The rest of it gets caught in his throat when Tatsuya, as free as he can get on the crowded court, rises into another jumper. This one’s like the spread of brake lights on a highway at rush hour when you’re looking through the window of an airplane that’s just taking off, something that might otherwise be ordinary, had any other person shot it, but spun the right way, like this, it’s fucking unreal. Tatsuya’s got Taiga at least at the tips of his fingers, spinning him like a basketball, and he’s got Xavier dangling at the end of their string, gouging the lead even deeper like this.

They take him out five minutes in; Taiga sags back in his chair. UCLA’s up by 31 now, a lead with plenty of room to give Tatsuya rest that he doesn’t want. He’s leaning forward in his seat at the sideline, staring at the floor, fingers tapping on his thigh—his replacement’s nowhere near his skill level, sloppy footwork and hesitant hands, but it’s enough for now. Taiga still wants to shout at the coach to put him back in, to make up for all the playing time Tatsuya didn't get last year.

They both have to settle for the last four and a half minutes, UCLA’s lead slackened enough for Tatsuya to justify himself to the coaching staff, for the fans to roar (because they love him too; they can see this the way Taiga can, the pure and clear love embedded in Tatsuya’s basketball like the whorls on the soles of his sneakers).

They’ve subbed most of the starters back in at various points in time, but even with Tatsuya they’re still at three of five. It should be enough; Tatsuya tonight might be enough on his own. He passes the ball around, eats up time, takes long threes and pushes the ball ahead; UCLA pulls wider. They’re not easing up, but Xavier’s emptying the reserves and giving it all they’ve got; they steal the ball off one of Tatsuya’s teammates, flat-footed, make two threes and foul the worst free-thrower on the UCLA team almost immediately after he touches the ball. He misses both of his throws, and Xavier’s going for another. Taiga holds his breath; the guy with the ball has a defender on him, but he rises into a jumper. His defender blocks it, and the ball bounces back as if it had hit a solid wall; it’s anyone’s. It’s another UCLA player who picks it up, passing it forward to Tatsuya. He could get the three points; he’s got enough room.

He’s a little hasty on the shot; it clanks off the rim and circles around before falling in, but three points are the same no matter how you get them, and Xavier’s only gained three on the lead instead of nine. There’s room to pull away again, and too little time for Xavier to put up much of a fight. Another unanswered UCLA three all but slams the lid shut, and they win by fifteen.

Taiga waits around in the lobby, trying not to get ushered out the door before Tatsuya texts him back. He’s added a congratulatory text, but still hasn’t gotten a response, probably because Tatsuya’s been mobbed by the press and teammates and coaches. Just as he starts to feel he really is loitering, his phone buzzes in his palm.

_meet me outside the starbucks on 11th_

_i should be there in 20_

Taiga pockets his phone and makes his way out. He’s not in the mood for coffee; anything caffeinated is just going to make him more wired, more excited to get out and play basketball. Maybe knowing Tatsuya will be there soon should give him time to calm down. He buys a green tea lemonade to kill time, but the line’s short and he feels like he’s going to crush the plastic cup in his hand. It’s doing nothing to calm him down or make him think about anything other than Tatsuya, what he’s going to say, how he’s going to say it. Where should he start? What does he even want to say? Telling Tatsuya he wants to play right now can’t do much good; dropping how he feels on Tatsuya right away can’t, either. Taiga wants to bury his face in his hands. He’s still holding the cup, though, and even if he weren’t he’s supposed to be an adult (or something close to that).

Taiga ducks back inside Starbucks to throw out the cup, and checks the time. Still a few more minutes; he glances down the street. Tatsuya’s early, hurrying toward him.

Taiga wraps him up in a hug, and Tatsuya doesn’t even hesitate to squeeze him back. He smells like soap and detergent; his hoodie is soft against Taiga’s cheek. His grip is tight; there’s no way he doesn’t feel the hammer of Taiga's heart against him—but the rush of warmth, winding itself tightly around Taiga’s insides, is probably his alone for now. (Except that’s a feeling he unequivocally wants to share.)

“That was a fucking good game,” says Taiga.

Tatsuya grins up at him. “Thanks.”

“I,” says Taiga. “It made me want to play. With you.”

Tatsuya’s expression shifts, from happy to something like it, a little unreadable.

“I mean...” says Taiga. “I know that’s, like. You just played and there’s no way we could and...”

He trails off, gesturing; he’s digging himself deep. Tatsuya might be insulted or weirded out; he might not want to play against Taiga or might think this is a jab at his skill level.

“You want to play?”

Taiga nods.

“I know a court,” says Tatsuya. “And I have a ball.”

He swings his duffel bag around; of course he does. Of course Tatsuya would take one with him just in case a situation arises where he needs to play basketball, or just in case he has ten minutes, like the between-shift breaks the summer he’d lifeguarded at one of the local pools. And this isn’t nearly as much of a given, but Tatsuya wants to play with him, too; hearing that makes something sweet and warm roll through Taiga’s torso like sugar icing.

“Lead the way,” says Taiga.

This isn’t a part of the city Taiga’s all that familiar with, but Tatsuya’s at least acting like he knows what he’s doing (though it’s still a possibility, knowing Tatsuya, that they’re just wandering around until they stumble on something—then again, knowing Tatsuya, he’s probably memorized the layout of LA by where the street courts are, and he only knows this Starbucks as between the arena and whatever court he’s leading them toward).

“Gonna give me a handicap?” says Tatsuya.

“Why me?” says Taiga. “You’re warmed up.”

“You’re fresher,” says Tatsuya. “Unless you don’t think you can overcome it…?”

“Like you’d ever take a handicap,” says Taiga.

Tatsuya inclines his head, but Taiga can’t miss the flash of his smile.

They turn a corner; there’s a park with a court.

“Want some time to warm up?”

“Stretch, yeah,” says Taiga.

They’re both wearing jeans, but at least they’ve got on decent shoes (Tatsuya’s are like the ones he’d been wearing on the court, probably the backups he’s just breaking in). Taiga tosses his hoodie aside, and it lands on top of Tatsuya’s bag; Tatsuya does the same but the arc of his throw is cleaner. Probably intentionally, too, especially given the way he catches Taiga’s eye. Taiga looks a little too long, maybe; it’s hard to look away from the tone of his muscles and the still expression hovering over his face like a paused video.

“First to twenty?” says Tatsuya.

Taiga nods.

Tatsuya checks him the ball first, and Taiga moves into a shooting motion almost right away, trying to get the easy J, but Tatsuya’s there right away, in his space; Taiga stutters back one step, two; his range is worse out here. Damn. He muscles his way around Tatsuya, getting through, back in range; he keeps going. If there’s no space between him and the net, there’s no space for Tatsuya to block his layup, even if he gets there. The layup lands; Taiga checks the ball to Tatsuya.

He holds the ball, then dribbles; Taiga’s back but not close, with enough room to make a lateral movement if he needs to. Tatsuya’s headed straight toward him, though; his dribble gets faster and he starts to run faster, and Taiga’s going backward but he’s not sure what direction Tatsuya’s going to go, when he’s going to swerve (he’s too close to make a more graceful turn).

He doesn’t; he reaches Taiga and goes up into a jump; Taiga reacts quickly enough to jump and meet him, but Tatsuya’s anticpated this. His fadeaway’s only gotten better since the last time they’d played; Taiga can feel the ball pass just over his fingers but that’s not enough for him to redirect it away from the net.

Taiga wouldn’t expect anything less. Tatsuya’s face is still unreadable, and the only thing Taiga’s mind is processing is that he looks hot, parted lips and bright face.

“Your ball,” says Tatsuya.

“Right,” says Taiga.

If Tatsuya’s tired or sore, he doesn’t show it; his reactions are quick and his moves are smooth. They’re both going all-out, and Tatsuya’s not falling behind the way he had the last few times they’d played. He’s not leading, but he’s not losing ground; Taiga blocks his shot and he steals back; Taiga makes a three and Tatsuya makes a longer one. He’s not satisfied with himself, but there’s less volatile anger threatening to explode out from under his surface—he hasn’t accepted the difference in their skill levels but he’s not going to wrap himself up in biterness as much as he had, even when he wants this just as much.

He’s faster and stronger, and it’s harder to just push past him; the more Taiga tries it the better Tatsuya stops him, despite easily having a fifty-pound disadvantage. And he still anticipates; he still seems to know what Taiga’s going to do before he does it, like he’s standing over Taiga’s shoulder appraising his hand of cards while hiding his own in his pocket.

Taiga still wins, but only by a couple of baskets.

“Good game,” Tatsuya says, giving Taiga a real smile.

“Good game,” says Taiga.

His tongue is stuck as if through a mouthful of peanut butter on what to say next. He wants a rematch soon; he wants to play Tatsuya regularly (impossible, at least until the summer). He wants to say how fucking good Tatsuya looks, face flushed and sweaty, pouring the contents of his water bottle down his throat.

Neither of them says anything while they gather their things, Taiga taking Tatsuya’s offered spare water bottle and then rolling his hoodie back down over his head. Tatsuya hoists his bag over his shoulder and stuffs both water bottles back in, but keeps the basketball out, twirling it on his finger (Taiga smiles; he still does that). Tatsuya leads them back in what Taiga hopes is the direction they came from.

“It’s late,” says Tatsuya.

“We can go back to my hotel,” says Taiga.

“Aren’t you in Sac?”

Taiga shakes his head. “I got a room down here for tonight. If you want to join me.”

His gaze is steady; Tatsuya’s good at reading meanings that are there and that are not, and Taiga has to show him that he means this. He wants Tatsuya to come back because he wants Tatsuya, and he’ll say it straight out loud if he needs to. Maybe he does.

“I’d like it if you did,” Taiga says. “Because I want to have sex with you.”

The ball skids to a halt on Tatsuya’s finger; he palms it, sticks it under his arm. Taiga looks back at him. Framed between the crossing edges of two streetlights, his black hoodie fits him like a cloak, pulling him back into the darkness. The shadows of his bangs against his pale skin are long, playing almost like bruises. Taiga stutters forward, toward him.

“Is this like a one-night stand?” says Tatsuya.

All the air drops out of Taiga, the weight of being crushed under a falling backboard. “No—unless, I mean, do you want—?”

(What does Tatsuya want? Taiga always thinks he knows, or doesn’t really think because he thinks he knows he knows, and it always ends up biting him, placing his faith in the wrong reason or the wrong mechanism. If Tatsuya wants him, how could it be a one-off thing, when their relationship’s been built up like a thin-stemmed plant, slowly opening its leaves toward the light?)

Tatsuya shakes his head and smiles, or maybe it’s closer to a grimace. “God, no. Taiga, I don’t want to do this if it’s because you think it’s what I want, or some half-assed compromise or something, or if it’s just like, a thing.”

He waves his hand.

“Shit,” says Taiga. “It’s not that way at all, okay? I promise. I’d never screw with us just for sex. Even for sex with you.”

His cheeks are flaring with heat like the inside of a toaster (fuck his stupid phrasing), but it makes Tatsuya crack a smile, almost laugh.

“What, you think I’m some kind of sex god?”

Taiga shifts—what, okay, he hasn't really consciously thought about it, but Tatsuya’s gorgeous and a shameless flirt and good at playing attention for all it’s worth; it’s not like it doesn’t make sense.

“Sorry,” says Tatsuya, reaching out to pat Taiga’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to make light; I know what you were getting at. I know you wouldn’t mean to insinuate that.”

Taiga smiles. “Yeah. I know. This is pretty fucking big.”

“It is,” says Tatsuya.

He draws a breath; his hand tenses against Taiga’s shoulder and then relaxes.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” says Taiga.

Tatsuya smiles, real and unmistakable this time, and Taiga leans down. The kiss is brief, just a moment before Taiga pulls back again. His heart’s racing a million miles a minute; the pulse in his thumb is jumping out against his skin. Tatsuya’s staring at him, his lips parted—and then he kisses Taiga, a little bit loose and sloppy.

“Shall we?” says Tatsuya, his hand sliding down Taiga’s arm to squeeze his hand. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

Taiga shoves him with his shoulder; Tatsuya shoves back.

The cab ride back is a blur until they pull into the hotel driveway; Tatsuya raises his eyebrow.

“Damn.”

Taiga grins. “The best for you.”

“You were thinking about this?” says Tatsuya, raising his visible eyebrow and scraping his thumb across Taiga’s knee, light but intense enough for Taiga to nearly forget what he’d said.

“No…” says Taiga, but it feels like a lie. “Not consciously, anyway.”

Tatsuya looks almost surprised for a second, but he quickly turns to his pocket, pulling out his wallet. The cab comes to a stop.

“Let me get it,” says Taiga. “I have a job.”

“You paid for the hotel,” says Tatsuya. “I can afford it.”

Taiga’s not going to push that issue right now. He’ll pay Tatsuya back in some way, even after Tatsuya’s made it in the pros. At least Taiga’s sitting on the outside, and he has the presence of mind to get out first and offer Tatsuya his hand.

They don’t let go of each other, not slipping in through the side entrance Taiga had used with the team, not up the back staircase and not once they get to the eighth floor, not in the trip down the dimly-lit hallway or when Taiga fumbles in his pants pocket for the key and unlocks the door. Before it’s even closed, Tatsuya’s pulling Taiga in to kiss him again, kicking the door shut behind him. His mouth is soft and warm; his tongue skims over Taiga’s lip. He tastes like green Gatorade (just jumped up to Taiga’s favorite flavor); he pushes his tongue in farther and Taiga tries to respond. He’s never really thought about kissing someone this much, beyond that it should feel good, except now he wants this to be good for Tatsuya. He wants to impress him, despite his advantages in charm and experience and whatever else. He wants to go faster, show Tatsuya everything; he wants to take this slow and make it last, drag every moment out, pulling each one with his teeth.

Tatsuya pulls back, breathing heavy; his pupil’s wider, his lips wet and bright pink. Taiga's pants feel tighter, constricting, obstructing; his own breathing is going the same rate as Tatsuya’s. He’d wanted before, but this, Tatsuya like this just from kissing him, is a little surreal, a little beyond the horizon of comprehension.

Taiga kisses him again; the incidental clack of teeth on teeth sound too loud and for a second he’s afraid the moment’s been shattered. Tatsuya pulls back slightly, but only to let out a breath that’s close to a laugh, his hands fisted in the sides of Taiga’s hoodie, his knuckles sunk in deep enough for Taiga to feel their shape on his skin. He needs to take it off, hands pushing at Tatsuya’s wrists and then at the hem, until it gets stuck around his neck. He swears, and this time Tatsuya does laugh; the sound is warm and sweet like rich hot chocolate, and Taiga’s got half a mind to just kiss Tatsuya again with the hoodie still bunched up around his neck. (There are years’ worth of kisses he didn't give Tatsuya, that he needs to catch up on, years’ more for when he’ll be in Chicago and Tatsuya will be here.)

“Need help?” says Tatsuya.

“I think I got it,” says Taiga, finally pulling the stupid thing over his head and tossing it at the closed closet doors.

“Hey,” says Tatsuya.

“Hey,” Taiga echoes.

Tatsuya inclines his head at the king-size bed, fifteen feet away. “Shall we?”

Taiga nods, and Tatsuya reaches for his hand. He pulls Taiga down to the bed, still sitting up, Taiga half-kneeling and half-straddling Tatsuya’s waist (not nearly as hard on his knees as it should be, but that’s the power of a really good mattress). Tatsuya’s kisses are softer, more focused, full of the same want that he’d been brimming with on the basketball court, the same strength as hurling a shot from nearly half court. He runs his hand over the small of Taiga’s back, down his ass, and fuck that feels good. Taiga shudders and moves his hips, trying to meet Tatsuya’s rhythm, but he’s too far to the end of the bed and almost falls off.

“Don’t get carried away,” Tatsuya says. “You have a game tomorrow.”

Taiga whines. He’s played on next to no sleep plenty of times and it’s always been okay; driving back tomorrow isn’t going to be fun but it wouldn’t be anyway. He can make up the rest when he’s not in LA with Tatsuya, damn it. He’ll sleep when Tatsuya’s not looking at him with rosy,  wet lips and his shirt doesn’t look like Taiga’s been pulling at it—or when Taiga’s used to it and it doesn’t feel like the moment’s about to explode (if that ever happens).

“I’ll be here in the morning,” Tatsuya says.

He scoots back on the bed, away from Taiga, closer to the headboard; Taiga’s still processing the words. He hadn’t been expecting Tatsuya to leave, but he hadn’t really thought about it, and, oh. Fuck.

“Come here,” Tatsuya murmurs.

“Don’t go so far away,” says Taiga, repositioning himself on top of Tatsuya, straddling his legs, conscious of every movement of skin on fabric on fabric on skin, the way he can hear Tatsuya breathing.

Tatsuya props himself up on his elbows, kissing Taiga again, sweet and slow turning rougher, harder, tongues on tongues and teeth. Taiga’s grinding his hips shamelessly against Tatsuya’s; his dick is demanding more and more friction, tenting in his pants. Tatsuya’s hands wander toward the front, palming Taiga through his clothes the next time his hips go up in the air. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.

“You want me to suck you off?”

“Um,” says Taiga. “Um, yes. Please.”

Tatsuya grins and kisses him again, sliding his hands under Taiga’s shirt and up his torso. “Want to take this off?”

Taiga pulls it over his head and Tatsuya’s fingers trail back down, stopping to circle and tweak his nipples before they go down his abs and to his belt. Tatsuya undoes the buckle, then unbuttons Taiga’s fly, slow and careful. His fingers aren’t touching Taiga’s skin at all, and Taiga sighs (it’s not fucking funny; Tatsuya’s such a tease; all his mouth can manage in a follow-up is a muffled sort of groaning).

Tatsuya undoes the zipper then, and plunges his hand into Taiga’s underwear. Taiga gasps as Tatsuya’s fingers touch his cock, and he definitely makes some sort of sound but he can’t even identify it because Tatsuya’s tugging his cock out of his boxers, rubbing the pad of his thumb down the shaft to the head.

He takes Taiga in all at once, his mouth warm and wet and his tongue lolling solid against Taiga. Taiga’s not even over Tatsuya touching him yet and he’s going into overload.

“Tatsuya…fuck…”

Tatsuya looks up at him, his lips tight around Taiga’s cock. Taiga wants to see Tatsuya’s other eye; without thinking more than that he reaches down and fists his hand in Tatsuya’s hair, sweeping back his bangs. Tatsuya pauses a moment, still looking, and then he brushes his tongue over the head again and Taiga feels his breath fall out of him. Shit, Tatsuya’s good, and Taiga’s so easy for him, for Tatsuya’s cheeks all hollowed out, the sound of his mouth, the way his tongue drags wet friction across Taiga’s cock. He’s enjoying this too much; the rolling heat when he comes stills his body and sends him higher than he could ever hope his vertical to be. He registers the sensation of Tatsuya’s lips releasing him and Tatsuya’s hair falling away from between his loose fingers.

“Come here,” he says, and Tatsuya listens, tucking himself up against Taiga.

His dick is hard against Taiga’s thigh, and Taiga reaches down, trying to get his fingers in through Tatsuya’s waistband.

“Got any lube?” says Tatsuya.

“Uh,” says Taiga.

There’s some kind of fancy lotion in the bathroom, but Taiga’s probably got something in his suitcase that’s a little bit better. He sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed. His suitcase is close by; Taiga doesn’t even bother doing up his jeans to walk over. He digs through the side pocket—disposable razors, toothpaste, Chapstick, tweezers—there, drugstore brand hand lotion. He brings it back to the bed, grinning at Tatsuya. His hair’s sticking up; his lips are swollen; he looks so hot that Taiga’s starting to think he’s getting aroused again.

He pours the lotion into his hand and undoes Tatsuya’s jeans with the other, pushing them down along with his underwear. He fists Tatsuya’s dick and Tatsuya gasps, kicking off his jeans and underwear before hooking one leg over Taiga’s hip. Taiga kisses Tatsuya; the angle’s much better. He tugs his hand, moving his finger, thumbing the head, and Tatsuya huffs.

“Please, Taiga.”

“Okay, okay,” says Taiga.

The sounds Tatsuya makes, muffled in Taiga’s shoulder, are sweeter than honey, soft and whimpering. His whole body tenses up, pressing closer to Taiga, until, when he comes, he goes totally slack, spilling over Taiga’s stomach and onto the sheets.

“Fuck,” says Tatsuya, rolling over onto his back.

He clasps Taiga’s hand in his; he gets the one covered in lube and come and wrinkles his nose before taking his hand away and wiping it on the blanket.

“Shower tomorrow?”

Taiga nods. His eyes are feeling heavy; he could do worse than to fall asleep at this hour sex-stained in a nice hotel bed. He wipes himself off with his discarded t-shirt, and hands it to Tatsuya to do the same. This time, Tatsuya doesn’t drop his hand, and snuggles in closer, and Taiga’s body feels like the inside of a convection oven.

Taiga wakes up with the feeling of his neck being tugged on, as if it’s at the end of a chain. It is, though; when he realizes he snaps awake to see Tatsuya’s deft fingers trying to ease the knots between their two necklaces. Tatsuya looks back up at him and frowns.

“Shit, sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You need my help?”

Tatsuya shakes his head, a yawn escaping his mouth. His face is bleary, his eye still sleepy and his expression slightly dazed. The knot he’s working on slips from his fingers, and Taiga leans in to kiss him. Tatsuya’s knuckles brush his throat, the sensation like a miniature electric shock. The knot is loosening; Taiga’s ring still slides down to try and stay near Tatsuya’s. It’s just gravity, but Taiga smiles as Tatsuya eases his own necklace free. He smoothes out the chain, and Taiga takes the opportunity to duck in and take another kiss, and Tatsuya rolls over, closer, giving him easier access. Taiga takes it, and lets his mouth linger on Tatsuya’s for longer than he means to kiss him. He’s got years of catching up to do, after all.


End file.
